


Crossing the Jordan

by istia



Series: The Eve of Destruction [2]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Ray Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-23
Updated: 2004-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:12:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Year's Eve, a week after the events in <em>The Eve of Destruction</em>, as Doyle comes home from the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing the Jordan

**Author's Note:**

> Written in Dec 2000 and published in Dec 2004.
    
    
      
    
      And even the Jordan River has bodies floatin'.
    
         --Barry McGuire, _The Eve of Destruction_, 1965

###### AND MORNING BREAKS

Doyle rested an arm across his eyes to blank out the pale light coming in the large windows of his garden flat. He could hear small noises in the kitchen behind him; innocuous sounds, yet homely in their familiarity. The rattle of the hospital tea cart just didn't have the same cachet. His mouth twitched in a smile as he thought of Bodie in the guise of Mrs Windle, flowered pinny, brogues and all, but the smile didn't reach the muscles around his eyes and quickly faded. Had he ever felt more weary--with breathing, with being?

A light pressure on his shoulder made him jump. He moved his arm and saw his partner placing a filled cup on the coffee table within Doyle's reach. The rich smell of Indian tea wafted to him and he inhaled, flaring his nostrils to draw in as much of it as he could. He luxuriated in the lack of the scent of Vim underlying everything else.

"All right, mate?" Bodie was looking at him, brows knit in concerned query. Hovering.

Doyle looked at the tea, set with care to be within easy reach with a plate of his favourite oatmeal biscuits positioned next to it, and felt the weakness choking him again. He nodded and watched with clouded eyes as Bodie sat in the chair opposite the sofa on which Doyle lay. Bodie looked broody and grim, as he'd looked the entire week; and tired. His set features had a harsh cast, as though he'd been hacked from flawed stone that had revealed little bumps and ridges where smoothness should be. Doyle took the cup in a hand that trembled slightly. He swallowed and regained some steadiness. The nation's restorative, that was.

Assuming the nation could be restored, of course.

"How's Forbes?" he managed, when he could trust his voice.

"Lost half his right hand. Now he'll need a calculator to count past seventeen and a half. Of course, it'll have to be a Braille one...."

Bodie's voice trailed off as Doyle retreated behind his closed eyelids again. After a moment, Doyle heard a click as china was set down and his partner's footsteps moving across the living room. _Don't leave me._ He clenched his fists in a concentrated effort not to say the words aloud. He focused on the pain in his palms as his untrimmed nails dug into his flesh, grounded himself, let time wander until he heard the steps returning and felt a presence close by.

He opened his eyes to see Bodie hunkered down beside him, looking just as Doyle had seen him behind his lids. He reached out a hand to touch Bodie's unshaven cheek. A muscle jumped under his fingers as he traced a deep line bracketing Bodie's mouth.

"You look tired."

A fleeting smile lightened Bodie's eyes. Bodie rubbed his rough face against Doyle's palm. "Not me, mate; not compared to what you look like, anyway. Ready for a lie down?"

"Thought I already was."

"Nah. Can't rest here, can you? Come on."

The arm sliding underneath his shoulders was too insistent and too strong to withstand. Doyle let himself be urged--and helped--to his feet and leaned on the solid warmth as the room spun dizzily for a moment. When it righted itself, he found himself clasped tightly in Bodie's arms, Bodie peering at him with understanding.

"All right?" Bodie's murmuring breath caressed his face.

They made it up the stairs--difficult, narrow things with no railing on the left side, open to the room below--with him safe in Bodie's grip. He was relieved to reach his own bed. The sheets were fresh; when had Bodie done that? The bed wasn't in this state when he last saw it. The blankets were turned down and he groaned appreciatively as he settled onto the mattress. Bodie wouldn't let him get under the covers, though, until he'd removed all of Doyle's clothes. Doyle let himself drift with the pleasure of being handled and cared for, watching Bodie through half-shut eyes. He had a tender touch, did Bodie; made a better nurse than some of those at the hospital. Smelled better, too, even though it was a mix of gun oil and smoke, the sweat of exertion and fear, a hint of blood and the sweeter tang of damp leather.

"I'm amazed Cowley let you off to come and fetch me from the hospital." He watched, not much surprised, as Bodie's lips tightened and his eyes darkened. "Hell. You didn't--"

"Are you going to be warm enough? Want to wear a tracksuit in bed? Bottoms, at least?"

_Won't you stay with me and keep me warm?_

Doyle traced with gritty eyes the lines that exhaustion, worry, and anger had riven into the familiar face.

"You're leaving, then?"

"For a bit. I have to relieve Biggles in the van."

Doyle managed a weak grin and grazed Bodie's chin with a mock punch. "Aren't you ever going to give poor old Biggs a break? He's going to do for you one of these days if you don't watch it; the flying jokes are even getting to me."

He reached for the eiderdown, but Bodie pulled it up. "Sure you'll be warm enough?"

"I'll manage till you get back."

"Probably be late."

"Yeah."

He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch Bodie leave. The covers were smoothed over his bare shoulders. Callused fingers skimmed up his left cheek and pushed his hair back. Bodie leaned so close Doyle could hear his quiet breathing. The urge to grab Bodie and pull him closer and not let him go was overwhelming. He clenched his fists again, deep under the blankets where no one could see, as lips pressed and lingered against his temple. Instead of pulling back when the kiss was done, Bodie leaned his cheek against Doyle's left one, the less-bruised side of his face.

"Ray," he heard, a faint susurration in his ear, "I want us to quit."

Doyle stiffened. Before he could respond, Bodie was moving away, out of the room, clattering down the stairs and out the door into the world of dangers and misery he had to negotiate alone for this while.

_Damn you, Bodie. Ah, fuck._

:::::::

He slept, despite his expectations. His body called a hiatus for his restless mind and emotions both and he sank down into oblivion. He surfaced to momentary confusion in a blank darkness. Head turned on the bunched pillow to survey the grey dimness of evening, he realised he'd slept the afternoon away. A gleam of light showed beyond the open door. Raising his nose into the air like a bloodhound, he sniffed the faint aroma of coffee. Bodie was home. Relief flooded him.

His bladder being insistent in the matter, he levered himself off the bed with little speed and a deal of care. He still felt stiff all over; the bastards did a fine job on him, all right. Fond of putting the boot in, that carrot-headed sod was, for one. Doyle hopped on his good leg, cursing under his breath as he moved from bed to cabinet to chair to dressing table to wardrobe to door to bathroom basin, leaning on each to keep weight off his leg. He sat down on the toilet thankfully, glad enough to pee sitting down for once, and closed his eyes as the shakiness of reaction hit him again. Oh, damn. He'd been convinced he was going to die that time. The thought of what it would do to Bodie had haunted the hours in the farmhouse between the beatings and interrogations while the furious rampaging went on above and around him unceasingly.

He'd felt almost as relieved as angry when they'd finally shot the kid and made the incessant screaming and sobbing stop.

And now look what Bodie wanted to do to him.

_I want us to quit._

Steps padding quietly up the stairs provided the impetus that got Doyle upright again--more or less--and he did a cursory wash of his face and drank a glass of water his parched mouth seemed to absorb upon touch. He had a second glass in hand when the doorway was abruptly filled with dark, looming Bodie, bringing with him the scent of a winter night's crispness. Doyle stared at him, unable to imagine life without this vivid presence.

"Managing all right?" Bodie's tired eyes gave him a quick check from head to foot.

"D'you know what happened to my tablets?" he managed to croak, after clearing his throat noisily.

"Yeah." Bodie moved past him, opening the medicine chest over the basin. "Sorry. Should have left them handy."

Doyle swallowed a capsule and drained the glass for the second time. Putting it down, he reached out to Bodie.

"Give us a hand back to bed? I'm a uni without the cycle, at the moment."

It raised the smile he'd hoped for; even Bodie's midnight-blue eyes lightened, the skin crinkling around them as his eyebrows quirked. Doyle felt abruptly lighter, more sane. He smiled back and watched Bodie's eyes warm.

"Come on, then, Raimundo the Marvel." Bodie slid a strong arm under his and drew him close against his side. "Just as long as it's not another kind of 'eunie' you've become."

Laughing hurt. Doyle soon gave it up, but lay back in the bed feeling replete. That's all it took: Bodie's being with him. In mind, in spirit, in body, and himself with Bodie the same way. All three aspects of them together: their private holy trinity.

Bodie sighed eloquently a few minutes later as he slid his naked body into bed beside him. Doyle, who found it least painful at the moment to lie on his back, reached out his left hand under the covers and stroked the thin, delicate skin on the inside of Bodie's wrist. It was softer than the finest suede; soft as down. Doyle traced the living warmth under the skin, seeking Bodie's pulse and resting his fingertips on the strong throb. Bodie's foot touched his, toes stroking in a brief hallo. Doyle relaxed, letting his eyes droop shut. With a focused effort, he managed to put off actually going to sleep until he felt Bodie's arm fall lax under his fingers and heard his breathing deepen into heaviness. Then he sank again into oblivion.

:::::::

His awakening was cushion-soft, like riding a cloud. This silly thought penetrated slowly and made him smile. The hand moving up and down his less injured side pressed a careful bit more warmly against his skin. He thought of shifting to ease his aching back, but gave up on the idea at the first twinge. He opened his eyes instead, only to meet a moody gaze charged with emotion.

Bugger.

He struggled fully awake. "You're a better sight to wake up to than Nurse Ali, though your hair all tufty like that does resemble hers." He smiled beatifically. "Nicer touch, too--and smaller hands."

"Should I ask? No, probably not, just encourages you."

Bodie looked slightly less broody, so Doyle rabbited on. "Same muscles and gleam in her eye as Ali at a championship bout, you see, so the fellas in the ward naturally made the connection--Muhammad Ali's misplaced sister."

"And very misplaced she was, too," they chorused together.

Doyle basked in the grin that curved Bodie's mobile mouth even though it didn't quite lighten his eyes. Retreating behind a yawn that scrunched his eyes shut, Doyle emerged from it with the surprised realisation it was New Year's Eve; startling how the previous week had virtually disappeared into pain and drugs. He carefully stretched his joints and muscles preparatory to moving. A quiet day together would be just the ticket. He wasn't up for anything active and Bodie looked disturbingly exhausted still.

Bodie's warm fingers were playing circle-the-wagons around his navel, sparking some nice reminiscent thoughts of other quiet days spent together. Too bad memories were as far as matters were likely to proceed for a time.

"It's not on, I'm afraid." He stroked Bodie's bare arm.

"I know. I just want to touch you for a bit. Almost lost you this time."

"I'm harder to get rid of than that." He scoffed as lightly as he dared faced with the darkness in Bodie's eyes. "You know that," he added, more gently, closing his hand on Bodie's restless fingers.

"Do I?"

He took a breath that might have oxygenated his brain, but didn't steady his nerves a whit. "It's just the job, mate. I'm fine; we're both fine. Just like usual. We're good at it. I know when to keep my head down; survived the bastards, didn't I? Which is more than that poor, stupid kid managed."

"Forbes survived the job, too." Bodie stared down at him with unblinking eyes as expressionless as sea-washed shale. "First on the scene, bomb squad ten minutes behind him caught in traffic, his partner off in Fulham on one of the round-the-clock obboes, theatre-goers thronging the pavement, kiddies bouncing with excitement at seeing The Nutcracker. He knew what he had to do, didn't he? Try to defuse the bomb while the local coppers pushed the crowds back. Damn fool." His mouth twisted into a knot of disgust.

Doyle couldn't find a thing to say. Forbes' partner should have been there; the thought came to him with resentment riding its tail. It was no good, Cowley stretching them so thin on the ground that when a bad situation arose, it was all left up to one person to make the decisions and do what he felt had to be done. He thought fiercely that Bodie and he would have thought of a better way to deal with it.

"The Cow's not best pleased, I reckon?" he said, at last.

"Not noticeably, no. Though as no civilians were injured, it's all thankfully low-key. The Ministry cares more about that than one agent's fate."

And that was too much of a truism to argue with. Still, Cowley cared, in his way. Doyle found an obscure kind of comfort in knowing Cowley, once he had some time to himself, would probably knock back a glass of whisky with Forbes in mind--if not several glasses. Cowley would make sure Forbes got the full allowable pension, too. Doyle found no comfort in that thought, though, as it only reminded him Forbes was going to live.

"Better off dead." He spoke without thinking and grunted with surprise and a jolt of pain when Bodie's hand abruptly tightened on his side.

Bodie let go with a mumble, then leant over him. "I want us to get out, Ray. I meant what I said last night. I want us to quit. Now."

"Because Forbes was a fool--" He stopped, knowing that wasn't it at all. "Bodie, for fuck's sake, what's the point, eh? We could quit today and one of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow."

"I mean it, Ray. Our time could be limited, anyway. Cowley's been giving me some odd looks. I don't know if something happened or what it's about, but he's been eyeing me ever since we got you to hospital on Christmas Eve. Once he susses us out, that'll be it anyway, probably."

"Maybe," Doyle insisted, pressing himself upright with care.

Bodie abstractedly shoved pillows behind his back for him to lean on; he'd become quite handy in the past week of hanging around the ward. Well, be fair: Bodie always was pretty good at stuff like that. In a ham-handed way. Doyle elbowed the pillows into a more comfortable state.

"We don't know what Cowley's going to do until he finds out, if he does. What's the point in borrowing trouble? Even if he suspects--"

"He'd have to be dim not to by now." Bodie's mutter was low enough for Doyle to ignore.

"--you know what a canny old bastard he is. He won't turf us for being shirt-lifters if he can get around it; we're too useful to him and 'replacements can be very expensive'." He smiled as he managed one of his better exaggerated imitations of Cowley's accent. "The Old Man's a pragmatist. Anyway, not a bigot, is he? There's the government policies, but they don't bother him; 'some rules are just made to be broken, Doyle'--"

"This isn't about Cowley," Bodie interrupted, now resembling a mule at odds with the world. "It's about us. And I want us out."

_Don't do this._ Doyle stared at his partner, fear curling back into his belly as he recognised the adamant set to Bodie's mouth. He closed his eyes and leaned tensely against the pillows.

"I didn't join this mob to be safe. That's not the point, is it? It's a job that needs doing and we're damned good at it. Better than anyone else. We make a difference. That's the point, that's what it's about; that's what _we're_ about."

He knew it wasn't quite true for Bodie. Bodie didn't join CI5; he was seconded from the SAS. Just another career shift in a lifetime of them, another new arena to explore and use his talents in, whereas Doyle had only had the one switch. Unless you counted his aimless youth before he made up his mind to pull himself together and finish school properly and get into the Met; but Doyle didn't. He'd been a copper and now he was CI5. There was no further stop for him--nowhere else he could do what he intended to keep doing for as long as he made that difference. When he lost faith he was making any difference, then it would be time to quit. If he was still alive.

He forced himself to meet head-on the flinty need in Bodie's eyes. Anguish seized him.

"Bodie. This is our place. It's right for us, just like it's right for us to be together."

"Predestination?" Bodie's voice hit a higher timbre than usual in a mirthless jeer. "Don't give me that crap."

"That's not what I meant and you bloody know it! I'm thirty-five years old, I'm fit and I'm good at what I do. I haven't bloody worked all these years just to dump it now and do--what? What, Bodie? Become a minder for some fat-arsed pop star, like Kenning has? Did you get a good look at Kenning last time he turned up for darts at the Dog? Did you see the look in his eyes?"

"You and me are different. There's a world of things we could do that don't include pansying up to arseholes with too much money and too few brains. Kenning was a washout from the start. Lost his nerve. You know that."

_And you haven't?_ Doyle quashed the traitorous thought, though not quite quickly enough. It threaded its way through his nerves and set him awash in sadness. He looked at Bodie, really looked and made himself see the stretched-wire tension in Bodie's hard-muscled body and the determined set to his mouth and the masked but palpable desperation lurking in his dark-lashed eyes. Panicked desperation of his own swamped Doyle.

_Don't leave me. Bastard. Bloody selfish bastard._

He knew he had to break the tense silence. He managed to form words at last, speaking with a helpless sense of failure. "I can't, mate. You must know that; you know me better'n anyone does. I can't just cut and run, just let it all go, turn my back on it. It's not me. I wouldn't be fit to live with if I just let go of it all and became...something--" he shrugged, lifting his hand with the palm up and fingers spread "--else."

"And if Cowley does find out and decides we're too much of a security risk and kicks us out? Or gives us a choice between us and the job? What'll you do, then, Ray?"

"I dunno. Think about it when it happens, I reckon. No point thinking that far ahead before it happens, is there? It's not the issue right now anyway, is it?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Has Cowley--"

"This isn't about Cowley. It's about me." A muscle flexed in Bodie's jaw.

Bodie was drawing away. He watched as Bodie's eyes shuttered against him. Bodie's face blanked into marble coolness and his body drew back, straightening. He was no longer touching Doyle; perhaps he never would again. The thought made Doyle ache as though from deep inside, as though his entire body had been dealt a bone-bruise that would never heal. He shivered, shocked, wondering dazedly how he'd slipped up so badly that Bodie was able to blindside him like this.

He watched Bodie leave the bed and cross the bedroom for his clothes. "Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry, Ray." Doyle had to strain to hear the low voice. "I hoped you'd come with me, but--"

Bodie showed nothing but his back as he quickly and efficiently dressed. As he put his arms into his holster, he spoke matter-of-factly. "I love you too much, you see. Knew it was a mistake. I'm sorry. I really am. I wanted to keep you safe. Failed with my girl in Africa that Krivas killed; failed with Marikka, too. I thought maybe I could manage it this time; third time lucky and all that. But I can't stay to watch you die."

Doyle said, outraged, over the rustle of Bodie's shrugging into his leather jacket, "And what if I die because you're not there to back me up? That'll be all right, will it? Not your responsibility, so that's all right? You're a bloody coward, Bodie! You don't care about me at all, mate. You just think I should kow-tow to what you want."

Bodie's broad shoulders flinched, but Doyle couldn't find the will to stop. It was fine to be in a rage. A fine, strong, high wall of rage to keep the pain at bay for a little while.

_Don't go. Don't leave me. Bastard. Fucking bastard coward. Don't do this to us, Bodie!_

He wanted to plead with Bodie and make promises and bargains, but he couldn't. He couldn't find anything in himself to bargain with.

"Go on, then," he said roughly, furiously. "What are you waiting for? Violins? That's only in the pictures, sunshine. In real life, there's no grand heroic exits--only cowards scurrying into hiding like rabbits."

That got Bodie moving, though he paused on the narrow landing outside the door. "You can't stay here by yourself; these stairs are impossible without even a fucking rail. I'll tell Cowley he needs to move you somewhere or send someone to give you a hand."

"Yeah, you do that!" Doyle yelled after him as Bodie went rapidly down the wooden steps. "Tell Cowley what to do, tell me what to do, tell the whole bleeding world what it's supposed to do according to you!"

He heard the glass door shut and fell into the ominous silence of aloneness.

 

###### GIFT OF THE MAGI

The trip into the bathroom was harrowing. Doyle didn't even try for a shower; hovering everywhere on one leg was dangerous enough without adding the slickness of a wet bath into the equation. Bloody Bodie had left the crutches the hospital had sent home with him downstairs, as Doyle had ascertained by peering over the edge of the landing. Leaning neatly against the wall in the living room, they were.

_Very useful, Bodie. Thanks ever so much for everything._

Self-centred, self-righteous, self-serving, selfish bastard! Who did he think he was? An ultimatum, no less; and such a peachy time he'd picked to deliver it. Couldn't give Doyle a few days to get his breath back, could he? Doyle wouldn't be back on the streets for weeks, but Bodie was like a damned little kid who wanted what he wanted right now, and that was that.

Reckon it didn't matter now if Cowley knew or not. There wouldn't be anything for him to find out about now--and nothing in the future, like as not. Sitting on the closed toilet seat laboriously shaving, Doyle paused with the reflection that he couldn't imagine ever wanting to have sex with a man again. Not after Bodie. Not that he could presently summon the remotest degree of interest in sex; he had less than no interest at the moment in sex or socialising or people in general, never mind specific. One day, though, he would. When the time came, he'd seek out women again and rediscover the old pleasure in their company and their bodies. Never again with a man, at least not that he could foresee right now. No other man could ever compare to Bodie. And comparisons, whilst noxious and futile, would be, he imagined, inevitable. He'd always be reminded of what it had felt like to be with Bodie.

Wearily putting away the razor, he hopped into the bedroom and paused, holding onto the wardrobe and dressing table on either side with arms outstretched as at a crucifixion. The sight of the rumpled bed strangled him with emotion. The last time. Those sheets--of all the sheets he would ever know in all the rest of his life--had felt Bodie's body, his weight, the smoothness of his skin here, the roughness there, the mingled strength and vulnerability, for the last time. Bodie was gone. The thought was stunning.

Would he see Bodie again? Get one last confrontation? A truly glorious fight on a cresting wave of fury that could drown these crippling feelings of weakness and pain: that was the ticket. Doyle sighed as he lowered himself onto the bed and stretched his aching leg with a grimace. As Doyle was presently a cripple, Bodie would probably turn gentlemanly and refuse to join in. Just like him not to give a bloke even the satisfaction of a last resounding mutual walloping.

The thought of Bodie's being gone before Doyle was mobile enough to see him at HQ was unsettling, but maybe it would be for the best. He wasn't at all sure he'd be able to see Bodie again; to see him and yet have no claim on him. Not even, apparently, for friendship. Not as lover and not as partner; not as friend, not as mate.

Where would Bodie go? What would happen to him? He'd be all right, on the surface at least. He always had been. Lo, the Great Survivor.

Underneath the surface, though--underneath the tough surface and the laughing one and all the other facets of himself Bodie showed the world--he'd be a mess. He was a cocked-up mess when Doyle had been lumbered with him seven years ago; trust Cowley to stick him with a proto-maniac, and an egotistical one to boot. It'd taken Doyle a while to sort him out, but Bodie was okay now. Damn anyone who tried to say differently! Bodie was okay. He was true and loyal and caring. People had mucked about with him emotionally and psychologically in his iffy formative years, but he was straight-arrow now. He was okay.

More than okay as a partner. And was there a word to describe what he was as a friend? As a loving friend, as the person who had become more important than any other in the world?

More than that, Doyle knew he had become Bodie's anchor. He knew as much as Bodie meant to him as lover, mate and partner, Doyle was equally crucial to Bodie. Doyle at least had CI5: the job, the commitment, the basic belief--even after seven years of slowly burgeoning doubts--that he was making that bit of difference in the world. The kind of difference that gave value to life in a world of hazy greys where boundaries were variable and ethics undependable. He could still depend on a core of faith that told him he could navigate this dangerous territory where others failed. He'd had two props in his life: CI5 and Bodie. Without Bodie, he'd still have CI5...at least until he was killed or until his faith died from one too many disillusionments.

All Bodie had was Doyle. He'd given his loyalty to Cowley and the Squad and bent his considerable energies to Cowley's purposes. But his soul was Doyle's.

Bah! Who was sounding like a cheap night at the pictures now? Typical. Bodie acted like a selfish berk and Doyle ended up feeling guilty about it.

He pulled on a cableknit jumper with savage but controlled jerks, his ribs making their views known about his movements. His jeans were impossible to don. He chose a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms instead and had to lie on the bed to wriggle into them, then pulled on thick socks with darkness pulsing at the edges of his vision when he bent over. Dressed at last, he lay back on the bed contemplating the ceiling.

When he woke this morning, he had two things that mattered in his life. Now, all unexpectedly, he was back to having only one. Career. Helping the unknown masses. Giving everything he had to follow Cowley's vision of a lavender-scented England. Worrying constantly about losing Bodie on the job; well, that was ironic, wasn't it? He wouldn't have that worry any more since Bodie had taken care of that contingency himself.

Doyle shivered as the immensity of his loss rolled over him in a flood of freezing despair. He knew, instinctively, that this was precisely the way Bodie was also feeling right now--the bloody fool!--and Bodie would soon be severing himself from whatever CI5 meant to him as well. And it did mean more to Bodie than anything else in his life ever had, other than Doyle himself. Yet here he was giving up Doyle, Cowley and CI5, leaving himself bereft of everything that had meaning in his life.

He felt impatience and anger and resentment; but sorrow, too, undeniable, sharp as aloes. He wanted both of them, both sides of his life to make him whole. Dammit! But without Bodie, he still had CI5.

Without Doyle and the Squad, what did Bodie have?

Depressingly like one of those trashy Christmas films, he thought sourly as he negotiated his painful way down the stairs. Those ones where some poor, deluded git sacrifices his all to give his darling what she needs and wants most. Bloody pathetic. He and Bodie would probably have a huge falling-out within the year and never want anything to do with each other again. He was convinced a couple of times a week he'd rather kill Bodie than fuck him. It was all bound to end messily.

Still, at least this way it would be entirely Bodie's fault when it did. That was a gleam of brightness to carry forward from this sordid day. Happy New Year, indeed.

He had a brief rest--enforced; not at all of his choosing, thank you--at the bottom of the stairs and finally made it to the phone. Cooper was on duty. Rumour had it Cooper had taken a bullet in the head a year or so before Doyle joined the Squad, and Cowley had kept him on occasional fill-in duty out of the goodness of his heart. Of course, rumour had once insisted the world was flat. It was Doyle's considered opinion that if a bullet didn't explain Cooper, then recruitment policies in his year of enlistment had needed a serious overhaul.

Doyle eventually managed to discover 3.7 wasn't on duty that day, but he could be reached via R/T. It was puzzling that Cooper couldn't actually raise 3.7 on the R/T--and he'd be sure to note that fact in the log book--but he might be out of range. (Or left it sitting in the car as usual. Doyle ground his teeth.) If 4.5 wanted to ring off, he could try getting 3.7 on his home phone. The number was-- Oh, yes, of course 4.5 would know it. Oh, no, Alpha One was closeted in a meeting and had been for two hours; he couldn't possibly be disturbed except for an emergency. (Doyle wavered, but decided against chancing it.) A meeting with 3.7? Cooper really wasn't at liberty to say....

In essence, Cooper, as always, didn't know a damned thing. Doyle let the handset clatter into its cradle. Where the hell could Bodie be? He hadn't answered his home phone; first place Doyle had checked. He wouldn't just skip out without accounting for his behaviour to Cowley, and there was his flat to empty, things to dispose of, ops and paperwork to complete. He wouldn't just--go. Would he? Of course, being Bodie, and Bodie in a mood, who could ever be sure? Jax might have seen him. Or Murphy, possibly; he and Bodie had worked together a few times; got along all right off the job, as well.

Doyle fought down the threatening panic. It would be all right; he'd find him.

He had just lifted the handset again when he saw movement in his garden. The gate was swinging inward and Bodie appeared. Doyle stared through the glass door, transfixed, phone still in hand, as the slump-shouldered figure crossed the flagged garden. Bodie didn't look up until he'd unlocked the door and was stepping inside; as soon as he saw Doyle, he halted as though he'd walked into a force field. He stared at Doyle with eyes that seemed luminous black in his pale face.

"You're back." Doyle didn't even try to curb the grin that spread all over his face.

Bodie was an annoying bastard--there was no point in trying to deny the obvious--but, oh, he was a sight for sore eyes. And, apparently, for other sore parts of the body as Doyle's various aches and throbs receded before the rush of delight that coursed merrily through him.

Bodie seemed somewhat less delighted. His brows drawn down into a scowl, he thundered, "How did you get down here? What the fuck do you think you're doing, Doyle? You could have tumbled all the way down those bloody stairs!"

"I came down them on my bum, one by one, like a bleeding toddler. What the hell did you think I'd do? Wait up there like Rapunzel to be rescued while you were off ruining both our lives? You can just have another think, Bodie, if you think you're going to be running things for both of us."

Aggressive offence was the best policy; Doyle knew his man. Knew his territory, too. He plunked the phone down with more force than necessary and thrust an imperious hand towards his crutches. A crooked brow had Bodie striding across the room, shedding sparks of energy and the clean scent of crisp cold air as he passed Doyle.

"Ta." Doyle put the crutches awkwardly under his arms and headed for the sofa at the far end of the open space. "Put the kettle on. We're going to have a talk."

"Speak to Nurse Ali like that, did you? And get away with it?"

"Yes. And no. Come on, Bodie, move your arse; I'm parched. We're going to have a long talk, my son--I'm going to talk and you're going to listen--and I need lubricating."

"No, we're not." Bodie put the kettle on the stove and came to stand before him.

"Oh, yes, we are!" Doyle bent a ferocious gaze on him.

Bodie crouched beside the sofa. "It's all right, Ray--"

Doyle leaned forward and took the rough-stubbled face between his hands. "Yeah, it is. I don't know why it means so much to you, but if it does, then I'll go with you. We'll pack the Squad in and find something else to do. Amnesty International, maybe; they do good work. The pay's likely peanuts, but after Cowley's idea of wages and hours, we'll probably think we're rolling in gold. Or we could look into Oxfam. We'll find something that'll suit us both."

Bodie's eyes widened. "You'll pack it in? For me?"

"Yeah, for you, heaven help me. Need my head examined, but if it means that much to you and if it's a choice I have to make between you and a job, then the job doesn't stand much of a chance. Oi! Watch me ribs, you great lunking bear!"

Doyle closed his eyes in relief as he was crushed--carefully--to the hard, familiar body. Within minutes, a Bodie transformed into a smiling, laughing, joking (very bad jokes, which showed what good spirits he was in), hand-rubbing, campy companion was surrounding Doyle with tea, sandwiches, rug, pillow and myriad fleeting, snatched touches. Doyle basked in the touches. He eventually hooked his partner down to his level for a long and satisfying kiss that left Bodie on his knees beside the sofa holding onto Doyle as though he'd never let go.

"Thing is, Ray, I came back because I realised I couldn't go off anywhere without you. So it's okay if you want to stay with Cowley's mob; I'll stick it as long as you do. And if it means having you bleed in my arms again one day, then that's what it'll mean. But I couldn't leave and never know what was happening to you and not trusting whoever Cowley might partner you with. Just couldn't do it. I can't stand the idea of not being with you, no matter what. So, it's okay. I don't think we should leave CI5 until you're ready. I'll stay for however long it takes. A.I.'ll still be waiting."

Doyle stroked his hands over the neat cap of hair, too choked for a moment to speak. He was exhausted. Partly from the bloody tablets--and partly Bodie's fault, of course. Exhausted, but uplifted.

"We'll talk about it. Later." He grimaced. "And just look at the pair of us, both as soppy and pathetic as those poor fools on the box! I'm warning you, Bodie, I'm not sacrificing my all for you every damned year, so you'd better watch yourself in future. You've shot your bolt, mate."

"Whatever you say."

Bodie gave every impression of not listening to a word, but as his mouth was offering reassurance with mute eloquence, Doyle accepted the pledge and returned it in kind.


End file.
